This Solemn Hour
by thefireplanet
Summary: In which Fred and George break into Filch’s office and find much more than they ever bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: **hello all. this is my harry potter baby, and i hope it turns out all right. i have to warn everyone: though harry potter is my favorite series i haven't read it in awhile--please excuse any mishaps in dates/spellings and things, and please also point them out to me so i can fix them.

not to bore everyone with a long note, but please read and review. reviews are good. like cake.

* * *

**Chapter One**

"What about the dung bombs? Should we take those?"

"Of course, put them in there. I think my trunk has more room."

"How are we going to fit our school books in?"

George Weasley was looking oddly at his brother, holding a teetering stack of school books under each arm, when a great banging on the Burrow's rickety old stairs made him momentarily forget his problem and his mother's voice filtered through his door. "Fred! George! Hurry up, or we'll be late!"

"Coming mum!" George yelled as Fred searched through the last of the clothing strewn around the floor of the twin's small room. "I think we got everything important," he was muttering as he stood, kicking a lone robe to the corner.

"Maybe we can have Dad ship us the books?" George was looking annoyed between the two open trunks that took up most of the floor space in their room; both were filled to the brim with pocket sneak-o-scopes, dung bombs, the last of the candy from their trip to Diagon Alley the week before, a few robes—Fred had even managed to snatch one of the old brooms Dad had lying in the shed, and it lay somewhere beneath everything, to be used on a nice sunny day.

"Just hand them here," Fred motioned impatiently as the commotion from downstairs grew louder. George watched as his brother took the worn, hand-me-down books and threw them haphazardly into one of the trunks. They stuck out horribly, and George was about to say so when Fred gingerly closed the lid as far as it would go and climbed atop his bed. With a wild leap he landed on the trunk—there was a momentous crack from inside, a few shatterings, and George could not help but wince as Fred flipped the lock and dusted off his hands.

"There, that's everything, right?"

"I think so." George noticed with dismay that that had been his trunk, and not Fred's; the latter shut easily.

"Boys, hurry up—" the door opened and Mr. Weasley appeared, shaken and harried, red hair glistening atop a sweaty face. "Charlie's loading his things to the car now." He paused here, surveyed the mess that was their room, and whispered, "Do not tell your mother," before flicking his wand in a gentle wave. The clothes bounded back to their dresser and the miscellaneous items flew to lie on top of the twin's beds.

"Thanks dad," Fred wheezed as he hauled his trunk to the landing. "Just wait, when we can use magic at home we won't need to clean _anything_ by hand anymore." He gave his case a gigantic shove down the stairs, watching as it toppled head over heels before stopping at the bottom.

"Or push trunks downstairs." George threw his shoulder into his own heavy crate and watched it tumble after his brother's.

"You guys are making a lot of noise."

"Well, well, if it isn't little Ronnikins." Fred twirled quickly, easily placing an arm over his brother's shoulder. "Come to see us off?"

"Will you miss us?" George intoned, sidling up to Ron's other side. His freckled face seemed to pale visible at having the twins so close, and George noticed the teddy bear clutched tightly in his small hand.

"Fred, George, stop tormenting your brother!" Mrs. Weasley's shrill cry echoed up the stairs. They heard a slight, muffled gasp as she found the two trunks and the scattered furniture around them. "AND CLEAN UP THIS MESS!"

"Ron, say goodbye." Mr. Weasley came out of the twin's room, dusting his hands off.

"What? Ron's not coming to see us off?" Fred asked. "It's our first year."

"Somebody has to watch Ginny," Ron muttered darkly. Mr. Weasley moved past the small congregation and hurried downstairs.

"FRED! GEORGE!"

"Well, goodbye Ronnie," George smiled, and ruffled his brother's hair. "See you later."

"Yep," Fred mimicked the sweet tone taken on by his brother, and Ron did not like the identical look that appeared in both their eyes. He step back, sniffling, onto the stairs leading to his room, watching warily as the twins followed the path their trunks had taken earlier. George looked over his shoulder and yelled, "Have fun with your new pet!"

"It's a going away present from us!"

A muffled sort of cry could be heard as George righted his trunk and began dragging it towards the front door. Behind him Fred chuckled.

"Is Ron alright?" That was Charlie, come to give them a hand.

"Something about a spider—" Fred started, letting his brother take over his own trunk and going to help with George's.

"—don't know what happened." George finished, as the two rushed out to the car, cackling loudly.

* * *

Loud and blaring, George was reminding keenly of Percy as the whistle of the train beside them shot off another bout of noise. He peered sideways at his older brother, watching him listen intently to their mother, who had her hands on stout hips and was saying something which Percy seemed to feel was a matter of life or death; his thin, gangly face and shock of red hair nodded up and down adamantly, all ears and eyes. George wondered what could be so important that Mum would risk them being late on the train; again the whistle blew, releasing a puff of white smoke which drifted overhead lazily.

"Mum's probably telling Percy to watch us," Fred was at his shoulder, sighing, hair, a redder, more vibrant color than Percy's, bouncing up around his head. George snorted, eyes roaming their platform for their other brother.

"Is Charlie already on?" he asked, peering through throngs of last minute hugs and split-second goodbyes.

"Yep, because he was smart and said goodbye right quick. Come on, let's just go, I don't want to miss the train—" As one they began towards the nearest compartment door, inching away from their mother who, sensing the departure of her biggest worries, twirled abruptly, mid-sentence from Percy and shouted, "Fred, George, get back here this instant!"

"Well Molly," a voice spoke through the crowds and George spied his father's fading head as he approached, timing perfect, "I just saw off Charlie. He's all well and good…" He peered between Fred and George, who each had one foot on the train, and Molly, who was nearly seething, and cleared his throat. "Ah, boys," he rubbed a hand around his Muggle glasses, "you should be off now—"

The whistle blew again, and George watched Percy give Mrs. Weasley a rather awkward, self-conscious hug with a snicker, before he pushed past the twins and entered the train. Molly, eyeing the conductor, quickly motioned for the boys again and, sighing in unison, the two turned.

"Now, I want you to behave." She straightened Fred's collar and from where their arms brushed George could feel him cringe. "No funny business, like you do around home. Respect your teachers, and—"

White smoke, frothy, like a fast-drifting cloud, began to spill out of the stack in the front of the train, and with a prod from Mr. Weasley the boys left their mother sputtering and raced to the compartment doors, feeling much safer once they were inside the vehicle. They looked back out at their mother who was yelling, "For goodness sake, stay out of trouble!"

* * *

"Here, this one's empty." George watched his brother tug open a compartment door; the back of the train rumbled incoherently and he was pushed to the side as another wave of first years, new and unsure, came looking for their own cars. Gratefully he followed his brother and sat down on the worn upholstered seats. Fred kicked the door shut with his foot.

"Can't believe we're actually on our way," Fred eyed the countryside rolling past. "Do you think it'll be any fun?"

"From the way Percy talks about it you would think so." George smiled, shaking his head. "But then again, it _is_ Perc, so his opinion doesn't matter much."

"Has it ever mattered? We're just lucky we ditched him back there. He was following us like a dog or something." Fred rubbed the glass which was fogging up with the heat of the compartment. He then turned his attention to the aisle outside the closed compartment door. "I'm hungry. Do you think that snack witch will come by soon?"

George assured his brother that the snack witch would soon be by, but it was half-heartedly. His mind was already thinking about the sorting ceremony they would have to endure later tonight. He fumbled with the edge of the hand-me-down robes Mrs. Weasley had forced them into on the car ride over, picking at a loose thread along the edge.

"George? Is something wrong?"

"No. I'm fine."

"Liar."

"I'm not—"

The door flew open and simultaneously the twins looked at the intrusion. A boy stood in the doorway, his black dreadlocks immediately noticeable. Shining eyes took in one Weasley, then the other, and George could see the newcomer working out how to address them.

"'ello, am I seeing double?" the boy smiled, invited himself in, and re-shut the compartment door. Fred sent George a look and shrugged.

"Probably. Most people seem to." Fred, bored, resumed looking back out the window as the boy sat comfortably on the seat next to George.

"I'm Lee Jordan, nice to meet you." The boy extended a dark hand, which Fred shook quickly and George followed.

"I'm George Weasley, and this here's Fred." George kicked his brother's shin lightly.

"Well twins Weasley, hope you don't mind me coming in here." He eyed the hallway dubiously as another wave of people, already sorted third years it seemed, flowed past. "Some Slytherins were in the apartment over, and I didn't want to sit with them."

"No problem." George wondered about how polite it would be to kick him out so he could continue his talk with Fred, but before he could get past perhaps reaching into his trunk and throwing a dung bomb the compartment door opened a second time and the snack witch appeared. Fred immediately perked up.

"Finally, 'm starving!"

"Anything to eat, dearies?" she coughed out. George eyed the chocolate frogs with envy.

"Two chocolate frogs, please," Fred handed over two sickles, and George smiled at his twin's apparent ability to read his mind. The boy named Lee declined anything, pulling out a smashed looking sandwich instead. To the questioning looks he responded, "My mum packed it," with a shrug.

"Mum packed some for us, too," Fred dug in his robes and pulled out a smashed roast-beef lunch. "But she gave me my brother Charlie's. I don't like roast-beef."

"She gave me yours then." George pulled out a peanut-butter, looked at it, and then tossed it at his brother.

"But what'll you eat?"

"Give me the roast-beef."

"You don't like roast-beef."

"How do you know?"

"Because _I_ don't like it."

"Just hand it over—"

George wrestled the sandwich from his brother and shoved an entire mouthful of the thick meat in his mouth, to prove a point. Fred frowned and proceeded to devour the peanut butter now sitting on his lap.

"You two are funny," Lee laughed, smacking his lips.

"We pride ourselves on it." Fred handed George his chocolate frog and opened his own. "So what house do you think you're going to get in, Lee?"

The tight feeling returned to George's stomach.

"Don't know." Lee shrugged, fiddling with his lunch's plastic wrapping. "Hopefully not Slytherin, that's for sure." He brightened up suddenly. "But I am so trying out for the Quidditch team, whatever house I'm in!"

"Quidditch? You?" George watched the disbelief cross his brother's face.

"Yep, absolutely love the sport. Are you guys going out for it?"

"Don't know," Fred shrugged.

"Being a beater would be fun," George mused suddenly. "You know, you get to hit things…"

"…take out your anger on other people…"

"…hurt Slytherins…"

Lee snickered at the last one. "I think you two would be perfect. You should go out for a team."

George said nothing. He wondered when they were going to arrive. His stomach was tight; he couldn't even force down his chocolate frog. Instead he watched it hop around awhile before closing up the container and peering at his Newt Scamander card which had been inside.

He wondered faintly if Fred was this nervous.

* * *

"So, are you going to tell me what's wrong now?"

Lee, after chattering more about Quidditch and the newest brooms and other inconsequential things, had drifted off to sleep. The sun was just dipping beneath the horizon, and George knew that they had to be close to Hogwarts.

"Nothing's wrong." George itched his nose irritably.

"Something is. Are you going to tell me? Or am I going to write Mum and tell her that _you_ were the one who stole Percy's wand and proceeded to do some illegal, underage magic—"

"But that was you!"

"—and wreck everything and—"

"What if we don't end up in the same house?" It came out rushed, and George was suddenly missing the general noise that had resounded throughout the train earlier. He even missed Lee's ramblings.

"Is that what you're worried about?" Fred looked honestly surprised and then he laughed, sitting up straighter. "Not to worry, mate, we're going to be in Gryffindor.

"How do you know though?" George was trying to imagine living in a dorm without his brother, and only seeing him during certain classes at which point communication would be limited. Eventually, he thought, it would only be a quick 'hello' after classes or on Sundays. When they went home for Christmas break, they would be two entirely different people.

"…George? George, are you even listening?" Fred was shaking his knee.

"What was that?"

"I said, I know because even Percy made it into Gryffindor."

He said it with such conviction that George let out a sharp bark of laughter which he quickly quieted for fear of waking Lee. "I guess that's true. If Percy can make it…"

"…then we definitely can. Besides," Fred plucked the chocolate frog that still sat on George's lap, opened it, bit off the head, and thoughtfully offered the rest to George, who declined, "it's not like some stupid school is going to split us up."

George flipped over the Newt Scamander card, watching the old man sleep peacefully as the sun drifted further away, and silently agreed.


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n:** i'm sorry for the (very) long wait. please read and review.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

"I'm so hungry."

"You just ate on the train ride over." George peered sideways at his brother, wondering how he could possibly be interested in what they were going to eat for dinner when, somewhere in the hall ahead of them, a patched, tired hat sat on an equally tired stool, waiting to send first years to their houses. He watched Fred's mouth twist into a frown.

"George," his brow was creased. It was the first thing that George noticed as his eyes drifted from the high ceiling, which could just be seen if he squinted, to his brother.

"What?"

"What if all they serve is roast beef? Or that horrid green soup that Aunt Muriel makes? Or what if all they have is-is _healthy_ food?"

George bit back a laugh and immediately regretted it, as his stomach proceeded to do another dead sort of flop in his chest. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, nerves threatening to get the best of him besides Fred's assurances. A severe looking old witch, with salt and pepper hair drawn into a tight bun and body hidden behind folds of green, flowing robes, cut off his answer with a sharp clear of her throat. The two brothers looked up simultaneously and instantly quieted.

"First years," when she spoke her voice was high, with a touch of some foreign lilt, "into a line, please. Try to refrain from mobbing—yes, that means you cannot stand next to each other, girls—"

There was a fair amount of grumbling as the first years, jittery, were prodded into the semblance of some sort of line, with Fred leading the way. George grappled at the back of his worn robes with a hiss. "Don't stand up front—"

"Why not? I want to eat—"

"Because, you idiot, we don't want to be first—"

"I hear that the Sorting Hat always places the first person they sort into Slytherin." A voice whispered conspiratorially into the space between the arguing twins, causing them to momentarily cease fire.

"Seriously mates, only a joke," Lee Jordan was trying to contain laughter, "you two are wound up tighter than McGonagall's hair."

"Very witty today, aren't we?" George heard a slight rumble, and watched as Fred sent a glare in the direction of his stomach. His twin shot him a look as if to say, See? I'm dying of hunger, before turning back to face the velveteen green fabric of McGonagall's robes.

A silence descended then, thick and foreboding. The doors, imposing and large, remained shut, refraining from letting the new students have their first glance at the fabled great hall. McGonagall impatiently tapped her feet. "Always late, Albus," she was muttering, "always the long introductory speeches—"

She stopped abruptly as the doors began creaking inward, slowly at first, and then picking up speed. She stepped purposefully through the threshold into the awaiting hall, which George could tell, just by the sliver visible through the opening door, was immense. He hunkered down behind Fred, and could feel Lee behind him doing the same.

A second passed, then two—from around his brother's fraying robes George watched the door continue to creak inward and open, and watched McGonagall's feet get progressively farther away. "Fred," he poked his brother in the back, "come on, mate, move, we're supposed to walk."

"I don't feel so good," was his whispered response.

"Man, what's wrong with him?" Lee asked. "We can't wait here forever, the Sorting's about to start—"

But George peered around into the hall and saw the sea of faces looking solemnly back, and could understand Fred's hesitation. McGonagall was halfway down the entryway now, and the first murmurs were beginning to sweep through the hall as the students noticed she had behind her a rather lacking gaggle of first years.

"Well, Fred," George straightened up, "time to take this school by storm, don't you think?" He stepped upward next to his brother.

"Yes," he seemed to shake himself from his stupor, which George knew he would claim later was not stage-fright or nerves but a lack of blood sugar which made him move more reluctantly, "yes, someone needs to make up for Percy's legacy."

"After you."

The Sorting Hat watched from its perch atop the rickety, three-legged school as the twins came barreling to a stop before it.

George could have sworn it smiled.

* * *

"That was superbly delicious," Fred managed between licking the barbeque sauce from his fingers, "an excellent display of culinary craftsmanship, if I do say so myself."

"I quite enjoyed the subtle hint of gold inlay along the serving plates," George put on his best Percy imitation, pursing his lips and shrugging taller, "obviously the kitchen staff has good taste."

"Brothers Weasley, enough of your gagging." Lee took another swig of his pumpkin juice, watching with mixed awe and reverence as the glass magically refilled itself.

"But tonight is a night for celebration!" Fred roared with a smile, eyeing the new red lining his robes with pride. "Gryffindor for you, Gryffindor for me," he began in a sort of sing-song voice as George helped himself to more mashed potatoes.

"Please try to act civilized at the table." George quickly tilted his head backward to find himself staring up at the lank that was Percy.

"Ow! Fred, me eyes—"

"Enough." Percy snapped, irritable as always. George grinned cheekily and went quickly back to eating. "Are you two quite finished? I was hoping we could have a discussion as to the behavior you are expected to maintain while here at Hogwarts."

"Think you're our mum, do you now?" Fred said disdainfully as Lee choked up on his slice of pie, unsure of where to look.

"I was given strict instructions from Mother, yes—"

"I don't believe this." George felt his brother bristling and kicked him under the table.

"I see the family's alright." George had never been more grateful for Charlie's easy banter and watched as his older brother sidestepped a couple of Ravenclaws to stand beside Percy. "How are you two?" he motioned to George and Fred with a wide grin. "Keeping the family tradition alive, I see. Gryffindor! I knew you two would make it."

"Lee," Fred said by way of response.

"These are the other brothers Weasley." George finished for him, hoping to ease some of his brother's anger. "Charlie and Percy."

"The mistake we hope to forget." Fred muttered under his breath and George tugged on his robes. Lee waved, still slurping down pumpkin juice, his black dreadlocks banging around his eyes. George eyed the still uneaten ribs on his plate with much less of an appetite, but was startled out of his reverie by a sharp movement on his head as Charlie playfully ruffled the twin's hair, bending down to whisper in their ear, "Try not to let Percy bother you too much, alright? He means well."

Fred snorted, and George wanted to echo the statement—however, at that moment Dumbledore, who at first it had been difficult to stop staring at—stood, his long beard and half-moon spectacles catching the soft light of the enchanted ceiling, seemingly glowing. "To bed, I think," he began the speech in his puttering, determined tones, "for a long day awaits you all tomorrow. The prefects will show you to your dormitories."

"Cool!" Lee jumped up, food forgotten at the prospect of finally checking out the Gryffindor dormitory. "Is it true the dormitory has a water slide?" He was asking Charlie eagerly as the see of red, blue, yellow, and green began exiting the Great Hall. George was only peering at his brother, however, whose dark mood continued to cling to him.

Sometimes Percy really just was too much.

* * *

The statue caught his eye because it was so ugly. A large man, molded into perfect likeness in granite, almost hunched over with what was obviously meant to be a smile plastered to his face but was instead a grimace, watching over the little alcove he sat in. George tugged on his brother's sleeve, already not paying attention to the prefect's description of how to reach the Gryffindor common room. The cluster of first, second, third, and even fourth years was moving forward toward the changing staircases.

"What?" Fred asked absentmindedly.

"Look at that statue." George watched his brother's eyes narrow in suspicion. "It seems odd, doesn't it?"

Fred didn't respond, but sidestepped quickly out of the mob towards the alcove. As George moved to follow he felt a hand on his shoulder. "Yo, brother Weasley," Lee looked up at the prefect, "where are you going? You two don't know how to get to the common room yet."

"Aye, I know, I just want to talk to Fred a moment." George was getting pulled along by the mass of Gryffindors. "You go on ahead."

Lee shrugged, but his dark face was marred by a frown as George slipped out of the crowd and towards the side alcove where his brother already stood.

"Gregory the Smarmy." Fred said by way of hello, and George followed his arm to wear a nameplate was carved into the hard stone. "What did he do, I wonder?"

"By the looks of him nothing very good." George walked the circumference of the statue. "It just looked odd. He looks like he's hiding something."

"'at he does, but what?"

The statue's back was large and humped, looking strangely disproportionate to the beady eyes and small head. George knocked on it experimentally.

"Weird." Fred was closely examining the base. "You think there'd be a switch or something."

"A switch?" George peered out of the alcove to find that the hall was empty. He sat down next to his brother. "You think it's a secret passage holder, then?"

"Of course. Something this ugly must be hiding a secret."

George grinned, and was about to respond when a soft meow sent them reeling to their feet. The twins peered around the statue to spy a cat, mangy with horrid red eyes, peering back at them from the entrance to the large and many moving staircases.

"Bloody hell," Fred sighed with relief, "s'just a cat."

George laughed nervously but quickly shut up when a raspy voice, old and dry with disuse, echoed toward them down the hall. "Mrs. Norris," it wheezed, "have ye found somethin' useful? A lost student perhaps?" It cackled.

"Behind, hurry," Fred yanked George to the small, cramped space behind the statue where the back protruded, sticking his legs close together and motioning for George to do the same, so that the stone robes would hide them. George could barely breath, the space between the back and the alcove wall was so little.

Soft footsteps padded down the empty hall. "Its almost curfew, Mrs. Norris." The voice drifted towards them. "Wouldn't want to catch a wandering student."

A single meow sounded, loud and decidedly close. George held his breath.

"Its just old Gregory, Mrs. Norris." The voice coughed roughly. "Nothing there. Let's keep going."

George waited patiently until the footsteps could no longer be heard before he tumbled sideways into the curved alcove wall, gasping for air. Fred followed, landing on top of him.

"Who was that?" George pulled himself to his feet. "The groundskeeper?"

"I don't know but," Fred took the proffered hand and George watched as he dusted himself off, a strange gleam in his eyes, "I found it."

"Found what?"

"The entrance to the secret passage! The switch! Or at least, I think I did—" he turned to try it but George thought of the word curfew and abruptly stopped him.

"Not tonight. You heard that man—its almost curfew, and we haven't even found the Common Room yet."

George could tell that Fred was contemplating which was worse, having to wait to open the passage or running into the groundskeeper, late on their first night. The sigh he blew out sent his red hair fanning upward. "Fine. But we have to come back this week."

"We will," George grinned, excitement building in his chest at the thought of finding someplace new and un-explored, "properly prepared of course."

"Of course."

"But now we should really find that Common Room…"

* * *

"I can't let you in, boys, without the password."

"But look!" George watched as Fred impatiently shook out the red lining on his robes. "We're Gryffindors! This is the Gryffindor Common Room!"

"Sorry, dearies, it's a hard and fast rule." The pink lady, robust and slightly bleary eyed (perhaps one too many celebratory glasses of wine) began once again to sing a high, awkward soprano that made George cover his ears.

He slumped onto the stair rail, admitting defeat. The day had been long, not to mention it was surely past curfew at this point—it had taken them another thirty minutes to finally locate the famed portrait of the pink lady that hung in front of the Gryffindor Common Room.

But without the password it was useless.

"Pumpkin juice." Oh great, George rubbed his temples, Fred was back to guessing. "House elf. Tapeworm. Fairy lights."

"You aren't very creative, dear."

"Werewolf howl, roast beef, chocolate frog, candied brains, banana fritters—"

"That's a good one, dear, I'll have to remember that one."

"Abstinence."

"Oh-ho, you got it!" the portrait swung open to reveal a common room in full party mode. George looked at their rescuer.

"Well, if it isn't the red heads." A young, dark skinned girl marched purposefully towards them. "I didn't see you in the tour today. Maybe then you would have known the password?"

"More important business called, loved," Fred grinned, "and besides, I would have never seen your lovely face if I wasn't hanging round here—"

"Shove off, Weasley," the girl thrusted her hand into Fred's face and pushed backward. George got quickly to his feet as she passed.

"I'm George, nice to meet you." He was afraid to look at her face—shyly he peered at her Mary Jane shoes, black and blocky.

"Well, you seem more civilized than your brother." The girl shook his hand. "I'm Angelina Johnson. Perhaps _you_ would like to tell me why you were hanging around out here? It's almost curfew."

"Breaking and entering." Fred said at the same time as George declared, "Exploring."

Angelina Johnson's sharp brown eyes flitted between the twins before she broke into a smile. "You two are funny. Even if you," here she motioned to Fred, "are a pig."

"What can I say?" Fred bowed like a king and George wondered what was going through his head. Then again, he probably already knew.

This girl was pretty.

"Well, _I_ was settling some issues about Quidditch tryouts with Professor McGonagall. First years are welcome to try out—are you two going to?"

"I'm hanging here, dears," the high voice of the pink lady broke through the increasing yelling coming from the Common Room.

"Of course." Fred quickly said. George blanched, "What?"

"Well, they're next week. An announcement should be up in the Common Room soon." Angelina eyed the mess inside.

"So you're a first year too?" Fred grinned. "We'll probably have classes together, then—"

"Oh, look, I spy Katie and Alicia." Angelina turned. "Bye George, it was nice to meet you. Goodbye, piggish one." With that she marched inside, quickly lost in the fray, leaving the twins alone in the hall once more.

"Wow." George didn't like the stupid smile that Fred was wearing all over his face. He angrily turned towards the pink lady, who had swung close now that someone had entered, and shouted, "Abstinence!"

"Come on," he grabbed his twin and together the two traveled inside, officially and forever Gryffindors.


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n: **is there any excuse for me not posting sooner? ..not really. blame the summer, it makes me lazy. thank you to all who reviewed the last chapter-your feedback is greatly appreciated. :) please, as always, read and review!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"So, what'dya got?"

George slung his book bag over his shoulder and let go, where it hit the ground of the deserted hall with a loud clang. Fred shushed him impatiently, but George simply rolled his eyes. "I don't have books in here, you know."

"I never would have guessed." Fred retorted dryly, placing his own equally burdened bag next to George's. "You know, I don't even use this for books regularly."

"Not a week into our first year and already a slacker. Perce would be proud."

"Not as proud as Mum." George watched his brother grin cheekily and shook his own smile off his face as he hunkered down to his knees besides the two bags. Above them, unseen in the dark of night, the statue of Gregory the Smarmy stood sentinel. He couldn't help but wish that they had planned this for a day when classes were not to be resumed first thing in the morning; not only had all his homework sat, undone (an essay on the uses of transfiguration in the modern world and a worksheet to memorize for potions) on his bed back in the common room as he prepared for tonight's journey, but the first class he would have to face tomorrow would be potions.

With professor Severus Snape.

George blanched slightly, but did not voice his thoughts out loud. Fred had begun the arduous process of double checking their supply bags without him.

"Hmm, let's see here…" he reached into one bag and felt around. George could just make out his profile outlined by the faint moonlight from the windows at the far end of the hall. The rest of the castle remained shrouded by the night, and every noise they did make sounded impossibly loud. "…a torch, a sandwich, a cloak, a parchment roll and quill?" Fred ended his check list in a question. "This is yours? What do we need parchment and quill for?"

"So I can make a map." George responded, somewhat defensively. "In case we want to come back."

"Of course we'll be coming back." George felt Fred stand up beside him.

"What about your bag?" he asked.

"Oh I know I have sufficient supplies for the trek."

George rolled his eyes, reaching forward for the strap of the book bag and hauling the item across his shoulders. He reached inside and fiddled for a moment before his hand emerged with a torch, metallic and old, that they had filched from the supply closet on the first floor. Fred grunted as he pulled out the match pair, and with a flicker the old things came to life, sending off a soft, yellowish glow down the hallway.

"Quick!" George motioned to the statue, swinging his light around so that the beam touched the old marble thing and could not be seen by the night wanderers (Peeves, the annoying poltergeist, and the groundskeeper, whose name was Mr. Filch) should they pass by. Fred's light bumbled around disconcertingly, and George watched as his brother hunkered down, somewhat awkwardly with his heavy 'supply' bag, and reached for the switch he had discovered their first night here.

"I think I have it—" Fred grunted softly and that was when the twins heard a very loud, very ominous meow from the front of the hall.

George dropped his torch to the floor in surprise, where metal hit granite with a very loud sort of bang that continued to echo around them. The yellow light flickered abruptly off as the batteries were jarred. Fred deftly switched his own off and they were plunged once more into darkness.

"What's this, Mrs. Norris?" a soft, menacing voice sounded. "Late night trouble makers, out after hours? How very interesting…"

George felt his heart rate increase as a soft, deliberate step sounded towards them, as well as four pairs of sharpened claws clacking along the smooth floor. He nudged Fred with his toe, dropping to his hands and knees in search of his lost flashlight. He saw a glint of it, over by the window, but running to grab it would mean leaving the safety of the alcove, would mean Filch catching them—

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Filch hacked.

He was coming closer.

"Fred!" George dared the quietest whisper he could manage, as the cat had rounded the corner lip of the alcove and he was now meeting the reddest eyes he had ever seen—

A hand reached around the neck of his robe and hauled him backward into the space between the statue and the alcove wall, only instead of it being tight and cramped like the last time they took refuge there George saw a big, gaping hole had opened in the hunch of Gregory's back. A slight, stale breeze wafted through as Fred gave one final tug and the twins tumbled down the first few steps into a heap. George untangled himself from his brother and watched as Fred scrambled to reach the switch to shut passage.

As the old stone back grinded back into place George heard Filch cursing.

"There's no one here but an old statue!"

* * *

"Hey Fred." George kicked an old rock as they passed it, listening to it bounce away down the empty tunnel.

"Hey George." The light from the remaining torch, now switched on again, swept back and forth across the tunnel, which had recently leveled out from a very steep set of stairs.

They were deep in the castle's underbelly now. Or at least, George liked to think so.

"Why wasn't that passage—"

"—magic activated?" Fred shrugged, scratching his head. "I don't know. I was wondering that."

"Dad would have loved it." George smiled fondly, thinking of his father's odd obsession with the human world. "It was so very muggle like. With the switch and all."

"It was lucky for us whoever built that had a-likin' for old passage ways, or we never would have gotten in. Not if we needed a password."

"Like for the common room."

"Stupid Pink Lady, she knew we's was Gryffindor…" Fred faded off as the light continued to glance over dry rock, dark brown and entirely unassuming. "How long does this thing go on, anyway? We don't have all night."

George could feel the darkness they had left behind pressing at their backs and wished again he had not dropped the torch, and prayed again that Filch would not find it. He didn't exactly know how Filch would manage to trace it back to him, as he had not yet faced Filch directly, but perhaps the groundskeeper knew a spell for finding fingerprints on an object or something of the sort—

"George!"

"Huh?" he shook his head, looking over at his brother. "What is it?"

"We're going up. And do you feel—"

"—the breeze, yes. It's getting stronger."

* * *

The trees. It was the only thing that he could see, as far as he looked. Trees the size of small skyscrapers, reaching their branches towards the stars above. Trees whose roots sprawled above ground, creating nooks and crannies perfect for hiding the entrances and exits to secret passages. Trees whose seemed to move and sway and creak in the wind, talking in their own secret language. For awhile after the twins surfaced, it was all they could do to stare.

"So this is the Forbidden Forest." Fred whistled appreciatively. "Its very grand."

"I think grand is an understatement." George finally got over his initial shock and clambered over the first few roots blocking his path. This tree and several others grew over a small clearing, littered with leaves both brown and green. Sweeping some away with his foot George sat.

"Turn your torch off, mate," he said to Fred as his brother gracefully fell into a sort of heap beside him. "We can see well enough by the moon, and we don't want to be attracting anything."

"Like werewolves. Ahooooooo!" George shook his head as his brother howled, moving his head towards the just-visible sky above the foliage. He could make out the moon, not yet full, at the tips of his vision.

"Or something worse. Giants." George reached into his bag and pulled out the parchment and paper, marking in a clumsy script at the very edge the hall with the alcove and statue of Gregory the Smarmy. From that point he wrote 'find switch' in very small letters next to it, continuing from there to draw the steep tumble of stairs that he was not looking forward to climbing back up.

"Vampires. Trolls."

"Goblins, then, as well."

"Thestrals. Giant bugs. Dragons—no, no, the passage curved to the left more there, once the stairs ended."

"Like this?"

"Yeah."

"Bloody hell, I hate drawing this. Why don't you do it?"

"You're the prettier one, mate, so you get to draw it."

"You've got to be kidding me—"

"You forgot the worst creature of them all!"

"…what?"

"Unicorns."

George bust out laughing, the line he was drawing zigzagging off the page. He swore and picked it back up in the middle of the sheet.

"Frightening beasts, those are."

"Their natural prey? Tall, ugly, red-headed boys whose name starts with 'P'."

"But they enjoy snacks too—certain potions masters with names that start with the letter 'S'."

George watched as his brother's smile slowly faded. He sighed. "Well, should we be getting back? I have no fancy to be lost in the Forbidden Forest."

"Are you finished with the map?" Fred inquired by way of a response. George held up his piece of parchment, with one whole section x-ed out where he messed up, and lines far from straight making a maze like passage through the middle part of the paper. "Well our map-making skills could use some work…"

George scowled and rolled the parchment up with a snort, shoving it in his bag. He pulled out a sandwich, the last of the three his mother had packed for him before he left. Fred did the same. "A sandwich then?" he said, "Before we return to the castle?"

George smiled and unwrapped his, taking a large bite and listening contentedly to the trees sighing around them.

* * *

"Come on, faster, we have to—"

"—run, I know, stop trying to talk I don't have the air for it—"

It was just their footsteps, echoing loudly along the passage, heavy and frightened of getting caught. The passage seemed incredibly longer and darker, with the promise of something frightening at their fronts as they sped along. Sharp staccato against worn stone pounded an irregular heartbeat that was the backdrop to their race.

If only, George thought bleakly, wanting to stop and rest but knowing that Fred would just pull him back to his feet, they had watched the time more. They had to be back up in the Common Room by sunrise, lest anyone find them absent from their classes and their beds, and he regretted having allowed Fred to drag him wearily along every inch of the clearing.

The torch they had swung its beam of light wildly across the stones, doing them no good as they sped along, bags hitting their sides uncomfortably. George, eyes trying to adjust to the odd pendulum of darkness and light, ran into Fred, causing his twin to lose his grip on the flashlight. It dropped to the floor with a metallic clang. George stopped momentarily, but Fred's hand found his arm and tugged him forward.

"No use mate, we don't have time. We'll come back for it later."

It was hard without the light, as the boys soon discovered. George repeatedly ran into rocks, which almost sent him sprawling were it not for the steady hand of his twin. But nothing could save them from the shin-jarring jolt they both received as they ran headlong into the stairs leading up and out of the tunnel.

"Bloody hell!" Fred cursed, panting still. "That hurt!"

"Must be the stairs." George was equally out of breath, rubbing his shins with a grimace on his face that could not be made out in the dark. "Come on, mate—"

"Yeah, yeah, let's go—"

They were now quite incapable of bounding up the stairs, legs aching and lungs tired form trying to draw in adequate breath, forcing them to take the upwards journey at a steady walk. Reaching the statue of Gregory the Smarmy, George watched as Fred expertly pushed the stone hump open, and together they tumbled into the deserted hall.

"We have to move it, come on." Fred picked himself up, shutting the passage and taking a conspiratorial check around the hall.

"Where do you think Filch is?"

"Not here."

"Good omen, that."

"I suppose. But still, what about that poltergeist people have been talking about?"

"Who, Peeves?"

"Yeah. Suppose we run into him?"

"Well, let's hope we don't."

"I kinda want to."

"Are you barking?"

"More fun that way."

"Sure, I guess, if you like detention."

"George, live a little—"

"I am living a little, I just snuck out with you to the Forbidden Forest—"

"Psh, child's play—"

"Hardly!"

"Password, dearies."

"Abstinence." The twins snapped, passing wearily and gratefully into the Gryffindor Common Room.

* * *

"Oi! There you are!"

Jolted awake, George flung his head upwards towards the sharp noise. Off-balanced, he hit the floor with a crash, narrowly missing the corner of the nearest table.

"Bloody brilliant, mate." Lee Jordan's voice came floating down to him. "Was looking for you two this morning. Did you even come up to bed last night?"

"Wha..?" George groaned, looking with dismay at the increasing amount of sunlight filtering through the Common Room's windows. By this time Fred had succeeded in more gracefully waking, and was shaking out his rumpled robes. He offered a hand to George who noted the heavy bags underneath his eyes.

_Great_, he thought, _I must look worse._

"You don't look too bad, mate," Fred whispered in his ear as he dragged him upright. To Lee he coughed, "Yeah, must have fallen asleep while trying to finish homework."

"Well come on then, or we're going to miss breakfast!"

"On our way." Fred and George grappled for their book bags and swung them over their shoulders as they answered in unison, not caring that they held no homework but flashlights, half-eaten sandwiches, and other supplies from last night's adventure.

The portrait swung openly lazily, and the Pink Lady, yawning, chuckled at the twin's bedraggled appearance. "Late night, dearies?"

"What's she talking about?" Lee inquired as they made their way towards the Great Hall."

"I haven't the slightest idea." Fred and George replied, the former tipping his imaginary hat to Gregory the Smarmy as they passed.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n:** like..the fastest update. ever. hopefully its ok! i'd like to thank my reviewers, as always: I-lay-forever-wit-Fred-Weasley, Indigeaux, Death by Default, InkLaVie, sarlovesoccer, Amazing Anon. please read, and review.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

George felt he was going to be sick.

In fact, he was certain that he was going to be sick.

"Come on, mate, cheer up," Lee Jordan gave his back a reassuring slap, sending George careening forward into his uneaten breakfast and causing his stomach to roll around wildly, "a quick five minute game with some spectators—two or three, maybe…ok, maybe more than that, but still! That's all try-outs are!"

"Lee, bloody brilliant job you're doing of cheering him up." Fred shoved a half-eaten piece of toast into his mouth, catching George's world-weary eyes with his own sympathetic gaze. "You should, you know, grow up to be a therapist, or psychiatrist. Or something."

"Ha. Ha." Lee pursed his lips, dreadlocks flying around his head as he shook it. "At least I'm trying."

George moaned pitifully into his eggs and bacon, the smell making him nauseous. The Great Hall had nearly emptied out, as it was Sunday, and most everyone was headed to the library, the lake, their common rooms…

Or, in George's case, the Quidditch pitch.

He watched as Lee took a look at the time. "Well, we best be getting down there, or we're going to be late." He stood from the table they had shared their breakfast at and shook out his arms, bending his legs a few time. "Limbering up." He said indignantly to Fred's look. "Are you two coming?"

"Yeah, we'll meet you down there." Fred polished off his orange juice. Lee nodded, reaching down to grab his Cleansweep Seven from off the floor, and taking jumpy strides out towards the Entrance Hall.

"Come on, mate, you got to eat something," Fred pushed the full plate closer to George, who had straightened up, "otherwise you won't have any energy."

"I can't." George moaned, "I can't, I can't. I'll throw up."

Fred idly kicked his broom where it rested by his feet, placing his cheek in his hand. "Why are you so nervous? We play Quidditch all the time at home."

"That hardly counts." George covered his mouth but the moment passed. "We're playing against Percy, after all."

"Well, that doesn't matter. I know you'll do great."

"Stop lying."

"No, seriously, I know."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"How?"

"I'm going to do great."

"…what the bloody hell, Fred, that doesn't mean anything."

"No. It means you are going to do well, too."

"Just because we're twins does not mean we have the same Quidditch capability."

The great clock struck nine, and Fred cursed. He swept up his broom and clamored straight over the table towards George, who shot backwards as his twin knocked bits of various breakfast dishes into the air. He slid into the seat next to George, leaving a trail of disaster in his wake.

"Really mate," Fred wrapped an arm reassuringly around his twin's shoulder, "you'll do great."

George couldn't help but stare at the broken crockery left strewn about the table. He swallowed. "You think so?"

"I know so. But," Fred eyed the now empty Great Hall, "we won't even get to see if I'm right if we're late."

George sighed, rubbing his arms uncomfortably and shrugging out of Fred's hold. His broom was heavy in his hand as he picked it up. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"I'm always right." Fred grinned. "Now let's go."

* * *

The bludger, wild, free, and unpredictable, shot so close to his ear he cringed, shooting backwards; the bat he was holding slipped a little from his hand, and he barely managed to grab a hold of it before it fell to the pitch some twenty feet below him.

So far George was leaving a far from great impression.

Fred brought his own broom to a skidding sort of stop next to his brother's, and George watched as his sharp eyes tracked the ball hurtling towards the other pair of beaters, Lee Jordan and a second year named Timothy Hopkins. Lee was managing, thought George with a sort of sick sense of relief, to perhaps be worse than he was. Lee dodged the bludger's latest attack by slipping round on his broom, nearly falling off.

"Come on, mate," Fred wrapped his hand around George's, covering the bat, "you got this."

"I'm not so sure." Around them the two teams vying for attention and a permanent spot with the Gryffindor squad, played fiercely. Angelina Johnson, throwing the quaffle to fellow first year Katie Bell, flew low and close to Fred and George.

"Are you incapable of hitting anything?" she shot at Fred, who had dropped his hand and was now attempting to flip his bat around impressively.

"I can hit lots of things, love." He said nonchalantly, tapping her lightly on the arm as he inched closer.

"George," Angelina sounded kinder now, even as she gave his brother a mighty shove that sent him careening broom over heels away from her, "try to help your brother learn some manners. And a rough start doesn't mean a bad game." She patted his arm reassuringly. "I know you can do it."

With that she shot back upwards into the midst of a play, disrupting the gold practice team mid-stride and taking from them the quaffle. George was staring into the distance after her as Fred finally righted himself and inched back near him. "I think she likes me." He said smoothly. Suddenly noticing an incoming bludger, he said, "Oi, George, watch out—"

This time as George swung, he connected.

* * *

"Congratulations, mate!" George fought back a wide smile as Lee Jordan slapped him on the back. "See? Nothing to be worried about."

"Sorry you didn't make it though," George eyed Fred who was still trying to goad Angelina into a conversation. The common room was abuzz with the day's excitement, loud music and laughter filling the comfortable space.

"S'all right," Lee grinned, "I convinced McGonagall that an announcer was needed at the games to make things more professional and exciting."

"She agreed?"

Lee didn't get to respond as Oliver Wood, their keeper, tumbled over into the two of them, a happy smile on his face. "Sorry," he picked himself up, dusting himself off. "Everyone's so excited they aren't keeping their hands to themselves!" He laughed easily. "Shaky start today, Weasley, but you pulled through—you and your brother are simply amazing! We might have a chance at beating Slytherin for the cup this year."

"Step aside, Wood," Fred seemed to have given up on Angelina but George saw her being dragged forcibly along behind him, "I have business to discuss with my brother."

"George, please make him shut it." Angelina shook off Fred's grip and settled into one of the large, plush, red armchairs they had gathered around. "Stupid idiot."

"Angelina, really, what will it take for you to realize that we were meant to be—"

"Wow, mate, that's laying it on a bit thick." Wood grinned.

"That's Fred for you," George rolled his eyes. "He's set his sights on the unobtainable. Now nothing will deter him."

"Really?" Angelina perked up.

"You shouldn't be happy about that." George eyed her warily. "Only a second ago you were—"

"I know. But I have been struck with inspiration."

"Inspiration?" Lee looked between Fred, George, Angelina, and Oliver. "I'm confused."

"Rightfully so, mate, I haven't the slightest idea what's going on." Oliver scratched his head.

"Listen!" Angelina called for quiet and the group silenced. "Fred, I'll agree to be slightly nicer to you."

"Yes!"

"IF you do something first."

"What is it, love? Slay a dragon? Capture Peeves? Annoy Snape?"

"Shave Mrs. Norris."

George watched his twin's mouth shut audibly. He found that his own head was shaking even before Fred opted to respond, "No way, Angelina, nobody messes with Filch's cat. Nobody."

"Then it seems I shall never have to be nice to your dear brother here."

"It's alright, mate," Lee consoled, "there are other fish in the sea."

"…nothing to get you kicked off the team, Weasley," Wood was saying.

"Just give up." Angelina was grinning ear to ear.

But George knew what was coming.

"I'll do it."

And he also knew that he was going to get involved.

* * *

"You just had to do it, didn't you."

George was angry. He had been made to miss dinner, and now was shoved uncomfortably between two columns in some long-forgotten corridor hoping a striped demon-cat would pass by. He couldn't see Fred's face but he knew it was smiling.

"Just couldn't say no."

"Of course not, mate. Plus I made her promise that if I did this she would call me 'your Majesty' for an entire day of my choosing."

"That'll help your over-inflated ego." George's foot was falling asleep.

"But thanks, George, for coming." Fred's voice was muffled by his sleeve as he readjusted his hiding place.

George sighed. He could never stay mad at his brother. "Anytime, Fred."

It was then a meow resounded down the empty hall. Filch's voice came behind her, as always. "No one out after 'ours, I hope, Mrs. Norris." He wheezed. "I know somebody's been sneaking about…"

George felt his heart quicken. Beside him he could feel Fred fingering the razor he had stolen from Oliver Wood's trunk. Soft padding met his ears as the cat's jagged claws echoed towards him.

He felt Fred nudge him and knew it was time to put their plan into motion. Mrs. Norris had just passed their hiding place when George slipped out behind her and barreled down the hall towards the grounds keeper. He paused before Filch, bowed slightly, and said, "G'day, gov'nor," before taking off around the corner, praying Filch would take the bait.

He did, and George could just make out the frantic squealing of the cat as Fred caught her before Filch's heavy steps blocked out everything else.

George ran.

* * *

He was kicking the desk in front of him idly when he heard the latch on the door click and Filch's old voice hiss, "In y'go!"

Fred stumbled, laughing, into the hard wooden chair next to George. Before them sat a bare wooden desk, old and muggle-looking, with nothing but a quill and some old pieces of parchment. The walls were lined with official looking file cabinets.

"How'd it go?" George inquired under his breath as Filch stomped around indignantly behind them, apparently looking for something.

"I gave her a mohawk."

"A mohawk?"

"Yeah, but I had to put her under first. I'm glad Bill showed us some basic defense spells this summer."

"What'dya use?"

"_Petrificus totalus_."

"Nice, mate. Bloody brilliant!"

"Then I set her up, all still like, before the Pink Lady, said the password, and shouted, 'Angelina!' really loudly. Woke the whole place up."

"So the whole of Gryffindor saw it? I'm sorry I missed that."

"What about you? Have you been here long?"

"Not really. Ran Filch all the way to the Herbology rooms. Near made it to the Quidditch pitch, too."

"Wicked."

"ENOUGH CHATTERING!" Filch roared. "I need't wake Professor McGonagall, though I have a mind to hang ye by yer thumbs and leave ya to rot!"

He swung open the door to his office, with an abrupt, "Stay. Put." and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked with finality.

"He had to drop Mrs. Norris off at the Hospital Wing with Madame Pomfrey before taking me here, he was so worried about her." Fred guffawed, more loudly now that Filch was away. "It was the best."

George smiled in his seat, suddenly tired; closing his eyes he leaned backward, not looking forward to meeting Professor McGonagall in the slightest. _Twenty points from Gryffindor?_ He wondered. _A hundred? A thousand?_

A loud clatter sent him bolt upright. "Fred?"

His brother was no longer in the chair next to him. He caught a glimpse of red behind the desk. "Bloody hell, mate, get away from there—I'm sure Filch has protective spells—"

"What did I say Georgie," Fred's blue eyes peered at him over the desk top, "about living a little?

George stood quickly, wanting to place something in front of the door against Filch's return but knowing that would be too suspicious. Instead, and against every fiber of his being, he slipped around the desk to kneel beside his brother, who was sifting through the contents of the first top drawer.

"Look at this. The bloke is a squib!" Fred was holding up a letter titled, _Association of and for the Protection of Squibs_. George choked a little, trying to hide his laughter.

Fred placed the drawer back exactly as he found it, slipping it into its little cubby. The others were equally void of anything of any interest, and soon Fred had given up on the desk entirely and was moving towards the filing cabinets. George headed to the other wall and was beginning his own search when suddenly the door handle moved quickly. The two froze.

"Ooo ickle firsties, getting into trouble. Shall Peevesies get Filchy to come back now?" The slightly transparent form of the resident poltergeist drifted through the door, and Fred and George cursed in unison.

"Watch your mouth, ickle firsties." Peeves twisted upside down, his ugly, squashed face morphing into some satirical form of seriousness. He came to sit cross-legged in the middle of the ceiling. "I hate Mr. Filchy."

"Peeves, please, go away." George was not keen on the ghost. He had seen him in the halls, swinging from chandeliers, and generally being..

Well, being a pest.

"Or keep watch for us, Peeves." Fred grinned conspiratorially. "Whatever you want."

"Help the two, break into, to start a coup?" Peeves mouth stretched into a grotesque sort of smile. "Of course."

"You mean…you'll actually help?" George felt his own mouth drop open. Peeves never helped anyone. From the other side of the room Fred looked equally amazed that Peeves had in some way or another accepted his proposal.

"Peevesies likes to dance and play and make a living hell all day. For Filch, especially."

"Well, what do you think?" Fred addressed his twin, the ghost on the ceiling sitting patiently, grinning.

"I don't like it."

"We troublemakers have to stick together, no?" Peeves interjected.

"George. Remember what I said about living?"

"Yes. But I think this will just come back to bite us in the ass."

"Filch is coming with McGonagall, and then you two shall really fall."

"Shut it, Peeves!" Fred and George sighed. The latter caught his twin's eyes and the silent interchange between them left one feeling giddy and the other resigned to his fate. Fred spoke up, "We accept your offer, Peeves my boy."

"Set me to work then, ickle firsties."

George turned with a sigh—his millionth, it seemed, of the night—to the filing cabinets he had been investigating. Most were unmarked, or marked with Filch's shorthand. But one cabinet, in the corner near the desk, caught his eye.

_Confiscated and Highly Dangerous_.

"Fred, over here."

His twin ambled over and followed George's gaze. "That sounds promising."

George reached down and pulled but the drawer was locked. From above them Peeves was muttering about Filch returning soon. George ignored him and said quite unnecessarily, "It's won't budge."

"Peeves, can you open it?" Fred looked upward. The poltergeist grinned.

" 'Can I open it?' he asks. 'Can I open it?'" He twirled upward, head disappearing into the room above for a moment, before he shot towards the drawer. He was gone, but the filing cabinet could not mask his presence. It shook and tumbled and George backed into Fred's legs as the bottom drawer clicked, shuddered, and shot open.

Peeves exited his hideaway and resumed his previous position above them as together the twins, Fred hunkering down by George, inched towards the opening.

"Now you owe Master Peeves a show."

Inside were a variety of items that George could not identify: small boxes with heavy latches and two large items that looked suspiciously like overgrown dung bombs. Beneath the heaps of stuff of peoples long past George caught the glint of something off-white. He cautiously reached in and pulled.

"Brothers Weasley need to hurry for Filch is on his way."

It was a folded piece of parchment, worn in the corners and a yellow color, presumably because of age. It was blank, even as he opened it and flipped through its many parts. Fred frowned.

"Why is this highly dangerous? Its nothing but an old piece of parchment."

"I don't know." George handed it over to his brother and shut the bottom drawer. It locked automatically. "It looks almost like a map. A blank one."

"Let's sit down," Fred's brow was still creased over the map but George was happy to see that his common sense had not yet him left him. He quickly slipped into one of the hard wooden chairs and glanced around the room, which looked almost exactly the way Filch had left it.

"Filch is coming Brothers Weasley, McGonagall too!"

"What_ is_ this?" Fred flipped it around in his hands. George was rubbing his eyes, extremely tired. Any more late night jaunts like this were sure to wear on them—

"George!"

"What…?"

Fred's astonished look made George's question fade off. He leaned over to the map that Fred was holding out with a shaking hand, the old, blank thing, and saw blooming over it in dark maroon _words_—

_Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs_

_Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers_

_are proud to present_

_THE MARAUDER'S MAP_

"…The Marauder's Map?"

"How is it talking to us?"

"I don't know—"

"Bloody hell!"

"Peevesie must go!" The poltergeist suddenly shot up through the ceiling and the twins heads turned to watch him go. The doorknob began to move, slowly at first, and then they heard the lock and Filch's wheeze—

_Mr. Moony would like to advise the Brothers Weasley to hide the map._

George barely caught the words as Fred snatched it up and shoved it down the front of his robes. He was smoothing it out as Filch opened the door saying, "….petrified Mrs. Norris, Professor, out after hours—"

"Mr. Weasleys!" Professor McGonagall, even woken from sleep, looked extremely dignified and proud. Her tight lips were drawn into a deep frown. "What is the meaning of this?"

George could not seem to concentrate on the punishment that she began to dole out. Her words seemed to be of little importance after what they had just discovered.

The Marauder's Map? It sounded promising.


	5. Chapter 5

**a/n: **i saw Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and it was very good. except i thought the Malfoy Manor scene was lacking emotional depth on the part of Ron and Harry, which upset me. other than that...

here is the chapter. thank you to all who reviewed!

* * *

**Chapter Five**

George wanted very badly to look at the map.

So badly, in fact, that he was missing most of Professor Flitwick's lecture on the lock-opening spell, which was unfortunate, really, because that seemed to be about the only useful thing they had started to learn so far this year. Not that the spell to turn vases into flowers hadn't been utterly _thrilling_—but then, that was Transfiguration, not Charms.

And Transfiguration promised to turn into a rather frightful class, especially since McGonagall had given them two straight weeks worth of detention. And assigned them to help Filch on their days off. And had taken twenty-five points from Gryffindor.

Each.

"I want to look at that map, mate," Fred whispered under his breath. George watched as, beneath the table, his twin's leg bounced up and down with barely concealed energy. On the wooden surface Fred's lock, which he was supposed to soon begin practicing on, bounced around haphazardly, making small clanking sounds.

"I know, I know," George hissed under his breath, thinking about the apparently blank parchment that had, since last night, been shoved underneath Fred's bed, buried in his robes. "If we just make it through our classes, and then that detention tonight—"

"Mr. Weasley!" The shrill voice cut into George's sentences and he turned, in unison with his brother, to eye the diminutive charms professor. "A little less talking, if you please!"

"Yes sir," George mumbled, feeling his ears turn red as the Slytherin first years in the front of the classroom turned to jeer back at them. He felt Fred's glare even though he couldn't see it.

"Now, as I was saying, _Alohamora_ is a spell to only be used in great need. We teach it to you at Hogwarts not to promote stealing—which will be, if so caught, punishable by detention or suspension from extracurricular activities—"

George thought simultaneously of the blank parchment sitting in their dormitory, Wood's reaction were he to be kicked off the Quidditch team, his mother's reaction were he to be suspended, and the fact that Fred's reaction to the entire situation seemed a tad bit too joyful.

"—as seen fit. Now, _Alohamora_ does become an important spell in a wizard's arsenal, and, in these times, it is important to be as well prepared as possible. I'd like you to take up your wrists now—no, no, Mr. Jordan, no wands yet—yes, and now, imitate my swooping motion."

George pushed his hand into an odd sort of swooping pattern, hitting Fred in the arm as he did so. On his other side Lee Jordan attempted the motion a little to enthusiastically; looking like he was being stupefied, he flailed sideways into George, who bit his tongue to keep from laughing. "Wow, mate," Fred snorted, peering around his twin to grin at his friend, "are you excited or what?"

Lee Jordan could barely conceal his glee behind an attempted frown as he said, "Excited? Of course! Do you realize what you could break into with this spell?"

"It's reassuring to hear the extent to which you listen to Professor Flitwick's lectures." Angelina hissed from in front of them.

"He's got a point, though," Fred's eyes lit up with the thought of it all. "I mean, if we had had this last night, we wouldn't have needed Peeves to—"

George elbowed him in the stomach and stepped roughly on his foot, causing him to bite his tongue in pain. "Peeves to what?" Angelina turned around and narrowed her eyes. "I know you actually went through with that idiotic plan with Mrs. Norris, Weasley, but consorting with _Peeves_?"

"Did Peeves help you last night or something?" Jordan inquired. "He's tricky, that one—I'd avoid him, if I were you."

"No, he didn't help us...Fred had a dream last night, after we got back from Filch's. About...Peeves. Helping us break into Filch's office." The lie sounded blatant and poor in George's own ears and he even winced. It was now Fred's turn to elbow him.

Angelina's mouth opened, in preparation for some retort, but Flitwick chose that moment to speak up, "Alright, class, please pick up your wands."

With no feeling of satisfaction at all George heard the lock on his desk click open.

* * *

"I cannot believe you two!"

George did not know how much more of Percy's yelling he could handle. Lunch in the Great Hall was normally a pleasant experience, but Percy, spectacles askew, face an ugly, mottled red, screeching at Fred and him from across the table, was severely hindering the experience.

"Shaving! Shaving Mrs. Norris! WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?"

"Charlie seemed to find it quite funny." Fred noted, casually biting into his sandwich. He made a face. "How did I pick up roast beef?"

George took a sip of his pumpkin juice, but it did nothing to wake him up. The late night was finally catching up to him, and his eyes felt heavy, scratchy, and uncomfortable. Percy seemed more angry at the fact that his brothers were not heeding him at all than the fact that they had defaced Filch's most holy cat.

"Well." Percy sniffed, and it was indignant, condescending, berating, all in one. "Thanks to you two, we've lost fifty points. That means we're behind Hufflepuff!"

George was sorely tempted to point out the fact that it was not even a month into the school year yet, so the winner of the House Cup was hardly decided, but he was too tired. Instead he peered at the point counters, golden hourglasses standing tall and proud in the corner, and winced, "Bloody hell."

Fred followed his gaze and hurriedly reached for his previously discarded roast beef, shoving a large mouthful down his throat.

The ruby red of Gryffindor had settled at a rather lowly position not even an inch from the bottom of the hourglass, barely noticeable, and yes, George noticed with a cringe, even the yellow gleam of Hufflepuff outweighed their own accomplishments. He took another sip of juice.

"Well, on the bright side," Fred attempted to choke through his food, "Angelina has been slightly nicer to me."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, yet, mate," George spotted Angelina gesturing down to them from the end of the table. "It hasn't even been a day yet."

"I know, but did you see her face last night?"

"No. I was too busy being tackled by Filch."

"Well, Georgie, it was one of pure love, absolutely—"

"STOP CHANGING THE SUBJECT!" Percy nearly lost it.

"Stop being so uptight," Fred intoned.

"And maybe we will." George finished, grateful when, exasperated, Percy left—he finally seemed to have given up lecturing the twins as a lost cause.

"I have no hope for him," Fred sighed, "he wouldn't know the meaning of the word 'fun' if it came and bit him in the ass."

George couldn't help but agree.

* * *

The end of the day rolled around slowly, and George lived out the rest of it as if in a daze. By the time he and Fred reached McGonagall for their detention, after dinner and a quick (failed) attempt at homework, night was descending, and George was exhausted.

These late nights were going to kill him.

"I don't want to do this," George sighed, nearly falling into Fred as they slowly made their way towards their Transfiguration classroom.

"Yeah, I know," Fred seemed as weary as he was, "because I don't want to either."

George managed a small snort before they reached the door to their destination. The old, mahogany wood swung open before them, and in the front of the room sat McGonagall, severe and austere as always, straight-backed in her wooden chair and taking what seemed to be an unnecessary amount of notes.

"Ah, good," she set her quill down at the sight of them and took off her spectacles. "Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley. Please have a seat."

She gestured to the two desks closest to her. The twins moved forward rather reluctantly.

"The incident of last night was," she began, "uncalled for, and wildly out of our normal disciplinary issues. If two weeks of detention is not enough for you, I will be delighted to assign you to Professor Snape's command for another two—"

"No!" The two shouted. McGonagall seemed taken aback.

"Well then, you had better show repentance in these two weeks worth, won't you?"

"Hardly likely," Fred muttered beneath his breath, and, slightly delirious, George began laughing rather loudly and wildly. Fred, awed by this unnatural display, began laughing equally as hard, until the two were hunched together letting out wheezes as they tried to catch their breath.

"Snort funny, George," Fred giggled, "snort funny—do you get it? Snort. Like 'not'."

George burst into new laughter, the absurdity and reality of the past twenty-four hours coming into sharp focus as he gasped, "That was your worst joke ever."

McGonagall watched the entire scene with a raised eyebrow, unsure of what to make of the two boys. Finally she snapped, "Alright, alright, enough! Mr. Weasley—I mean, Fred, you will be staying with me and helping me with copying work. Mr. Weas—George, Professor Dumbledore requires your assistance in his office with some tidying up."

The tired, punishment driven laughter stopped immediately. Fred became deathly serious. "You mean…we aren't going to have detention together?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Weasley, as together I doubt the two of you could manage finishing any work whatsoever." She pursed her lips, and George regretted the heavy laughter of the past minute. "Added to that fact is the one where I can't imagine you _not_ getting into trouble were you both together."

"But Professor," George didn't like the thought of having to spend _any_ time away from Fred, much less time that they could spend together discussing the one thing on both their minds—the map—"we work better together—"

"It would be more beneficial for the school," Fred interjected, "if we were both there—"

"I'm sorry, boys, but my decision has been made and it is final." She sighed, reaching for her spectacles on her desk and adjusting them on her thin nose, checking a small, graceful pocket watch that had been sitting on her desk. "Now come along, Fred, I need you to begin this copying. Pull that desk up, the one you are sitting in. Ah Mr. Filch!"

George sunk a little into his seat as Fred, now moody and grumpy at the thought of separating from his twin, eased out of his own and began to tug it forward. "I trust you are here to take George to his detention?"

"Yes ma'am," Filch growled, with barely concealed hatred.

"I expect him to be delivered intact, Mr. Filch," McGonagall noted dryly as she handed Fred a quill, a piece of paper filled to the brim with writing, and a stack of blank parchment. "As does Albus."

"Yes ma'am," Filch mumbled.

"Good. Off you go, Mr. Weasley, Argus will show you to the Headmaster's office."

With one last look at Fred, George sullenly stalked from the Transfiguration classroom, feeling, if possible, less awake than before.

* * *

Filch led him to an old gargoyle that stood sentinel in front of what turned out to be a spiral step of stone stairs which, as Filch spoke the password and the stone beast sprang aside, began to move lazily upwards, towards a heavy wooden door. The entire time George was feeling out of place, as well as empty. Fred would have loved to see this; neither of them had been to Dumbledore's office before, and neither had even known where it was located in the castle.

The logical part of him knew that it was only to be for a few hours, but not having Fred around seemed to George very similar to not having an arm. He remembered the train ride here, his nerves at the thought of getting into a different house than his brother, and shuddered as the stairs pulled to a halt and Filch knocked on the door.

It pulled slowly open, and, without stepping in and continuing to glare at George as he had done for the entire journey, Filch said, "Mr. George Weasley for his detention. Sir."

"Ah," said a mild old voice from somewhere in the room beyond, "thank you, Argus. Come in, Mr. Weasley, come in."

George slowly stepped into the room, aware of the groundskeeper's evil glare even as the door swung shut behind him, blocking Filch's entrance inside. Shaking off the strange feeling, George finally allowed himself to look around.

The room was circular, and very large, lined with portraits of past headmasters and headmistresses who were currently engaged in various activities within their magical canvases—he saw chess and poker and one or two were even sleeping. The last activity, for a moment, made him extremely jealous, but he stopped being tired when he looked around at the rest of the room.

It was filled to the brim with magical devices which he had never seen. A small, odd-looking basin was sitting on the headmaster's desk, which the man unhurriedly removed to a cabinet as George stepped farther into the room. A musical note startled him and he jumped, peering sideways at a beautiful red bird that was regarding him, head cocked to one side.

"That would be Fawkes," the headmaster said, settling back in his large chair and steepling his fingers beneath his chin, "he has a beautiful singing voice, I am honestly jealous."

George still said nothing. He wasn't quite sure _what_ to say. This was Albus Dumbledore, after all.

"Please, sit," he motioned to the chair in front of his somewhat circular desk and George, grateful of something to do, missing Fred more than ever, settled into the chair across from Dumbledore.

"You look very much like your brother, Mr. Weasley," he mused, blue eyes glittering behind half-moon spectacles.

"Percy's been in here?" George was startled into speaking, torn between being somewhat in awe that his bad-tempered brother had seen the inside of Dumbledore's office before and horror at being compared to, in looks, to said brother.

"I was not speaking of Percy Weasley, but of your other brother, Fred."

George coughed, choking on air and spit; sitting up abruptly, he tried to breathe normally, but found himself looking incredulously at his headmaster, who was staring benignly and somewhat amusedly back at him.

"We're…we're twins, sir," George tried to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"In looks, it would seem." Dumbledore nodded. "But I did not bring you here to discuss such matters. It seems you and your brother had some part in the traumatic experience recently inflicted upon Argus Filch?"

"…yes, sir."

"What exactly was the offense?"

Had Dumbledore brought him here to interrogate him? "Shaving…shaving Mrs. Norris, sir. And petrifying her."

"Ah. A worthy cause for a detention, I am sure."

George looked down at his shoes, idly kicking the legs of the chair he sat in.

"So how about helping me with some copying work, Mr. Weasley? I believe that is what Minerva is having your brother do, at the moment."

"Alright, sir."

"Good, very good."

Dumbledore did not seem in the least bit angry as he handed George a quill and some parchment, showing him exactly what to copy onto the yellow-ish paper. "An important grocery list," he explained, "that must be copied several times over, I fear. I will need one in every room, in order to prevent my forgetting about it."

George did not question this odd reason, instead dipping the point of the quill into the bottle of ink Dumbledore had provided and beginning, in his blocky writing, to copy down what was needed.

He was on his fifth list when the silence that settled over the office was broken by the headmaster musing, "You know, I once taught a group of students very similar to you."

George, hand already aching, found himself curious. "How so, sir?"

"Oh, always making trouble at the slightest turn, always getting detentions, always making things difficult." He let out a little sort of laugh that sounded remorseful, and peered, blue eyes shining, out one of the great floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. "I assume you and your brother will be making a habit of this," he finally said, after a moment's pause, a smile playing across his lips, "this getting into trouble business."

"Yes," George found himself saying, saying something Fred would have elbowed him in the side for, "yes, we tend to do that a lot."

"Well, it will certainly make things more interesting."

George finished the fifth copy of the list and moved onto the sixth, copying down ingredients that still, after so many re-writes, made no sense—_pickled mandrake, leprechaun gold, venomous tentacula extract_—and peering upwards at his headmaster, who was still scratching away at a letter or something of the sort. "They were Gryffindors too, you know. I probably should not be encouraging you to all this," he suddenly laughed again, quill pausing, "but I do find myself missing them. The Marauder's antics were always quite amusing."

Here Dumbledore seemed to pause deliberately, gauging George's reaction or just thinking about the past, George would never know. His own quill paused, his heart raced, and he thought of the blank parchment sitting under Fred's bed, back in the Gryffindor tower, thought of maroon words blooming out in graceful script _THE MARAUDER'S MAP_.

"Well, that will be all for today, Mr. Weasley." The sudden change of course derailed George's already wheeling thoughts, and he glanced down, realizing he hadn't even finished all of the eighth list yet. "Thank you for your help."

George left the room, wide awake but still in a daze. It was almost, he thought, oddly, inexplicably, almost as if Dumbledore knew or guessed that they had done more last night than just shave Filch's prize cat. He hurried down the spiral steps, away from the ornate headmaster's office, one word pounding in his thoughts, over and over: maraudermaraudermarauder.

* * *

"He mentioned it?"

"Well, not the map, exactly, but he mentioned the Marauders."

"So they were recent members of the school?"

"Well, obviously, if that piece of parchment was in Filch's drawer like that."

"It just doesn't make since—first he has you copy a grocery list, and then he just brings up the Marauders?"

"I know! It was as if…well, as if he knew we had the map."

"That's impossible." Fred frowned, looking down at the blank parchment settled on the floor between them, empty and yellowing and annoyingly blank in the flickering firelight. The common room, other than them, was deserted, and the dead quiet night brings had descended upon the school.

"Yeah, mate, I know, but it was just how he brought it up…" George, annoyed, his tiredness creeping back, rubbed at his eyes. "We've been sitting in front of this map for nearly an hour, and nothing has showed up. Were we imagining it last night?"

"Hardly," Fred looked angrily at the map. "I saw it. Therefore, you saw it: ergo, we weren't imagining it."

"Genius, Fred. Bloody brilliant."

George watched his twin as he itched the back of his neck absentmindedly with his wand. They had beseeched the Marauders to show themselves, flipped through the pages of the map several times, said that Dumbledore himself had mentioned them, and still, nothing. George had even muttered _Alohamora_ in a vain attempt to perhaps unlock the map or whatever was keeping it silent.

"And while you were learning all of this—"

"He mentioned their name, I didn't learn anything."

"—I was stuck copying transfiguration codes for McGonagall. You got to copy a grocery list—"

"It was rather long."

"—while I was stuck with that! Not to mention Dumbledore let you out two hours early—"

"It was—well yeah, he did, actually. I got nothing for that."

"—while McGonagall kept me late." Fred shook out his wand hand and pounded the wood, tip down, against the map itself. George, bemused by his anger, was shocked out of retorting, or admitting that it had felt horrible without his brother there to talk to, as bright maroon words bloomed very quickly, more quickly than last night, across the blank parchment.

_MR. PADFOOT WISHES THE OTHER BROTHER WEASLEY TO WATCH WHERE HE POINTS HIS WAND._

"Blimey—" Fred scrambled backwards, his wand dropping with a clatter to the floor.

"Bloody hell," George whispered as the words shrunk, just as quickly, out of existence.

"George, did you just see-?"

"Yeah, mate, what was-?"

The twins were breathing hard, and the silence, in the wake of the scare, seemed more oppressive than ever. Slowly clambering around until he was settled next to George, Fred groped for his wand in the half-light, and together, shoulders pressed against each other as they both leaned for the best view, the two hovered over the once-again blank, yellowing parchment, which they completely unfolded. Taking a deep breath they said, "Who are you?"

_Mr. Prongs would like to inform the Brothers Weasley that they are in the presence of royalty._

"Hardly," snorted Fred.

_Mr. Moony would like to correct Mr. Prongs' statement. They are in the presence of the Marauders._

"We figured," George said, "as it was the Marauder's Map."

_Mr. Padfoot wants Mr. Moony to have more fun._

"Huh, he sounds like you, George."

_Mr. Wormtail wonders what to do about the Brothers Weasley._

The words were blooming rapidly across the middle of the page but were not yet disappearing. For good measure Fred lifted up the piece of parchment, swept a hand along the common room floor, and determined that no secret item lay there.

_Mr. Padfoot was all for showing them until they shoved a wand in his face._

"He didn't mean it!"

_Mr. Moony wonders if they are worthy._

_Mr. Prongs agrees._

"Worthy? Of the Marauders Map?" Fred frowned. "Of course we are! We just shaved Mrs. Norris, were thrown into Filch's office, and raided his stuff!"

_Mr. Prongs would like to congratulate the Brothers Weasley on a mediocre performance._

"Mediocre?" Fred gaped at the map, looking as if he wished he could punch it without breaking his fingers on the floor below.

_Mr. Padfoot wants to inform the Brothers Weasley that that was, indeed, mediocre._

"But we're Gryffindors!" George said suddenly, as if that would help. "Like you!"

_Mr. Moony wonders if they should help fellow housemates._

"Lions of a feather...flock together?"

"Isn't that one of those Muggle sayings Dad recites all the time?"

"I think the original one has to do with birds..."

_Mr. Prongs agrees. He would like to improve their previously sad attempt at hell-raising._

_Mr. Wormtail wishes to inform Messrs. Prongs, Padfoot, and Moony that the only way to do so would be to show them the map._

"The map? There is no map on this thing though."

The words suddenly disappeared, traveling up off the paper as if sucked away by some invisible force. In a darker maroon color, almost black, wide, deep-set letters appeared across the entire middle of the parchment.

_WE SHALL HELP THE BROTHERS WEASLEY._

"This is it, George, something big, something huge—"

_DO YOU SOLEMNLY SWEAR?_

"I still don't understand what this thing will be, though, Fred—"

_THAT YOU ARE UP TO NO GOOD?_

George peered sideways into his twin's eyes, and, together they smiled. Leaning closer to the parchment the two nearly shouted their response, George not even bothering to try and quiet his twin—excitement at the discovery of some great unknown coursed through his veins.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."


End file.
